


And They Looked Up and Saw a Star

by grey_gazania



Series: Family Heirlooms [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, the piped tags are a mess and I refuse to use them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:56:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6121714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey_gazania/pseuds/grey_gazania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Third Kinslaying, Maedhros and Maglor take Elwing's twin sons captive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Maedhros knelt beside Amrod's body, his clothes and face streaked with dirt and blood - some Amrod's and some his own, but most belonging to the dead, both Sindar and Noldor, whose bodies lay where they had fallen on the trampled earth of the Havens.

He heard footfalls behind him — Maglor, judging by the gait — but he did not turn. "Where is Amras?" he asked, closing his younger brother's empty eyes with gentle fingers.

"Dead," Maglor said, resting his hand on Maedhros' shoulder. "But there is something you need to see. Come with me."

"We should bury them," Maedhros answered, as though that were an answer to Maglor's request. But he stood and followed his brother — his only brother, now — back toward the handful of their people who remained. Their path was slow, as they had to pick their way around corpse after corpse, too many of them with familiar faces. _We should bury them all,_ he thought.

Amras' right hand, Galwen, stood a few yards away from their group of soldiers, keeping watch over two dark-haired boys. The children huddled close to one another, watching the men and women around them in silent fear.

"They're Elwing's sons; she left them behind," Maglor explained, switching to their native Quenya. "What should we do with them?"

"She left them behind?" Part of Maedhros wanted to judge her — how could she abandon her own children in favor of a treasure to which she had no right? — but he was too tired to summon up the necessary outrage. "We cannot kill them," he said. "I suppose—"

He was silenced when one of the elves assigned to stand lookout came running down the slope. "Ships," he called out, "heading toward us. A fleet of them."

"Gil-Galad," Maglor said, "or Círdan."

"Or both," Maedhros suggested. Maglor swore.

"We need to move out," Maedhros commanded, as though they hadn't already been preparing to do so. He hesitated for only a fraction of a moment before saying, "Leave the dead."

"The children, brother?" Maglor persisted. 

Maedhros looked down at the twins. One looked away, turning his face into his brother's shoulder; the other stubbornly met his eyes, despite clearly not understanding a word that his captors had said. "We'll take them with us," he said. "Perhaps we can force Elwing's people to exchange the Silmaril for their princes' safe return."

Galwen hoisted the more stubborn of the two children into the air, thwarting his struggles with a pinch and a click of her tongue, and passed him up to one of the riders. Maedhros took the other, waiting for Maglor to mount his horse before depositing the boy in his arms.

"Let us take to the river, and make haste," he said, hauling himself into his own saddle. Maglor nodded, and the remaining Sons of Fëanor and their ragged band of followers fled from the site of their crime.

  


* * *

  


After four straight days and nights of travel they finally risked making camp, for their horses and people both needed rest. The group hadn't risked a fire, in case their trail had been picked up, but the twins were now asleep in one of the tents — but only after a veritable flood of tears, two attempts to run away, and a lullaby from Maglor. Maedhros and Maglor were seated on the ground outside the tent; someone needed to guard against further escape attempts, and neither brother was likely to sleep that night.

"What are we doing, Nelyo?" Maglor asked softly.

"I don't know," Maedhros admitted, his voice barely audible. It wouldn't do for anyone — their own followers or Elwing's sons — to hear how uncertain their leader was. Maedhros couldn't deny that he had been shaken by how many of the Noldor had turned against him at the Havens, fighting instead to defend Elwing's people. "I honestly do not know. All I know is that Elwing is likely dead, and that if Círdan or Gil-galad find the Silmaril, they are more likely to be willing to trade it. Círdan has shown himself to be a practical man, and I cannot believe that any child of Fingon would be foolish enough to try to withhold the jewel from us. But if the Silmaril is truly lost…" He trailed off, glancing back at the tent with unease. "I don't know what we will do with the children — only that I will not see them harmed like their uncles. But they're terrified of us, and I cannot fault them for it."

"Once they see we don't mean to hurt them, maybe they'll feel more at ease." Maglor hesitated a moment before saying, "We'll manage; we have — we _had_ — little brothers."

"And we did a wonderful job with them, didn't we?" Maedhros' voice was bitter, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "Leading them all to into death — that's exactly what an older brother should do."

"We'll manage," Maglor repeated, squeezing his brother's shoulder. "We have to."

  


* * *

  


"What are they talking about?" Elros breathed, curled against his twin. "I can't hear."

Elrond shook his head. "I can't understand; it's that other language."

Elros moved a little closer. "I want Nana. Do you think they killed her?"

"They killed everyone else," Elrond pointed out, with the same stubborn set to his face as earlier. "And they won't let us leave."

"I'm afraid," Elros said, turning his face into his brother's shoulder.

Elrond said nothing. What was there to say, except that he, too, was afraid? Twice they had tried to flee, but both times the silent, scarred woman who had first found them had tracked them down and dragged them back, depositing them at the feet of the bright-eyed Sons of Fëanor. The men weren't monstrous or orc-like, as his mother had made them seem in her stories, but there was little kindness in their faces. Though the copper-haired man had assured them that they would not be harmed, Elrond did not believe him, and he had begun to fear what might happen if he and Elros continued to disobey.

He wrapped his arms around his brother and resolved to stay awake, lest the Sons of Fëanor change their minds and choose to slay them in their sleep. But the night was cold, and their blankets were warm, and he was tired. All too soon, and entirely against his will, he drifted into slumber.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

The Sons of Fëanor did not kill them that night, nor the next, nor the night after that. Instead they continued traveling, moving with more speed and less secrecy as the Havens grew further and further away. Elrond and Elros made no more attempts to flee; even if they did manage to escape the watchful eyes of the Fëanorian followers, they would have no idea where to go.

With escape barred to them, they chose instead to rebel with silence, refusing to answer any questions posed to them and speaking to each other only in the faintest of whispers in the dead of night. This lasted for three days, until Fëanor's dark-haired son put his foot down.

"Enough of this nonsense," he said one morning as they broke their fast in the peace of the deep forest. "You are in our care whether you like it or not. Let's make this easier for everyone by behaving like civilized people, shall we?"

 _You're not civilized,_ Elrond wanted to say, but he held his tongue. He had no desire to anger these violent men.

"I'll start," the man said. "I am Maglor, son of Fëanor. This is Maedhros, my elder brother. This," he continued, motioning to the scarred woman, "is Galwan. Next to her is Doronel. Beside him is Taraharn…" He went around their circle of followers, naming each of them for the boys. There were only two dozen or so men and women, Elrond saw now. They had seemed more numerous before, in the chaos of their flight.

Elros spoke then, ignoring Elrond's disapproving glare. "I'm Elros," he said. "My brother is Elrond."

"Better," Maglor said with a nod.

Maedhros, his voice rougher and softer than his brother's but no less commanding, said, "No one here will hurt you, Elros and Elrond. Maglor and I are kin to you, through your father's line. We will keep you safe, educate you, provide for your needs… You need not fear us."

"Our needs? What we _need_ is to go _home_ ," Elrond burst out.

"I'm afraid that is not possible," Maedhros said. "Your mother's people have something of ours. Until they surrender it, you will stay with us."

"So we're your prisoners."

Maedhros nodded, but Maglor said, "It might be more accurate to think of yourselves as our wards."

Maedhros shot Maglor an inscrutable glance, and something unspoken passed between the two men. "I suppose Maglor isn't entirely wrong," Maedhros said. "Your mother abandoned you in favor of the Silmaril, to which she has no right, and with your father away, that leaves you with no guardians. We can fill that role as well as any."

Elros frowned. "You're lying," he said. "You killed Nana."

"Elwing cast herself into the sea," Maedhros said. "That was her own choice. We laid no hand on her."

Something about that seemed wrong, but Elrond couldn't quite articulate what. Surely their mother would not have left them behind on purpose? But she was gone, and the Silmaril was gone, and they were still here... He shook his head a little, trying to clear his thoughts, but he still couldn't put his finger on what was bothering him about Maedhros' statement.

Elros, too, was frowning, but he changed the subject, asking, "Where are you taking us?"

"To our fortress at Amon Ereb," Maglor said. "We will spend the winter there. I realize travel can be tedious, but once we reach Amon Ereb, you will have other children to keep you company."

The man called Taraharn nodded as Maglor spoke. "I have a grandson about your age," he said to the boys. "I think you could be friends."

"We have friends back home," Elrond said. "We don't need new ones."

"Unless your mother's people surrender the Silmaril, you will not be going home," Maedhros said, a ringing note of finality in his voice. "I suggest you make peace with that fact."

  


* * *

  


"My brother doesn't mean to be harsh," Maglor said later in the day. They were riding once more, Elrond with Maglor this time and Elros with Taraharn. Maedhros, Doronel, and Galwen were acting as scouts and were out of earshot. "He simply prefers what he thinks of as the unvarnished truth. But he is right that you very likely will not be returning to the Havens of Sirion. You should think of us as your family now, and Amon Ereb as your home."

Elrond stayed quiet, studying the cracks in the leather of Maglor's saddle, but Elros tipped his head up to look at Taraharn and said, "Do you really have a grandson there?"

"My daughter's son," Taraharn confirmed. "His name is Arthoron, and he is ten."

"But you said he was our age. We're only six," Elros pointed out.

"Ah, but you are only half-elven, are you not?" Taraharn said. "You grow more quickly than we Elves do."

"How do you know that?" Elrond asked indignantly. "We never said that!"

"We had heard that your grandmother, our cousin Idril, wed a mortal," Maglor said. "And there are few who do not know the tale of Beren and Lúthien. Your lineage is no secret, Elrond."

Elrond considered that in silence. He'd known that he and his brothers were princes, of course, but he had never imagined that the dreaded Sons of Fëanor would know so much about his family. He had never imagined the Sons of Fëanor as anything more than monsters. But they seemed so _normal_ now that he had met them in person. Maglor's voice was not like the warning rumble of thunder, nor was Maedhros' hair red like the blood of those he had slaughtered. The tales he had heard seemed suddenly false. It troubled him.

A bird-call echoed twice somewhere ahead of them, and Maglor responded to it with a whistle of his own.

"Why are you answering the birds?" Elros asked.

Taraharn laughed. "That's no bird," he said before Maglor could speak. "That was Galwen, telling us that our path is clear of danger. We often use whistles. You'll learn what they mean in time, I'm sure."

 _I don't want to learn what your whistles mean,_ Elrond thought. But he held his tongue. Though Elros continued to question Maglor and Taraharn, Elrond spent the remainder of the day in silence.

  


* * *

  


By the time the Sons of Fëanor reached Amon Ereb, Elrond and Elros were cranky, saddle-sore, and deeply homesick. They were turned over to woman with gentle hands and tired eyes, who fed them and bathed them and tucked them into bed.

"I want Nana," Elros mumbled.

The woman brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. "Of course you do. That's only natural," she said. "But your mother has left, and you are here with us now. Sleep, little one. Things won't seem so bad in the morning."

He made a sound of wordless discontent, but he was too tired to continue protesting. The woman stroked his hair and began to hum softly. Soon both he and his brother had been lulled to sleep.

Melloth closed the door softly behind her as she left the room, and then went to find Maedhros.

He was in his office in the heart of the keep, bent over the map that he had laid out on the desk before riding out to attack Elwing's people.He'd shed his armor but hadn't yet bathed or changed from his traveling clothes. He looked up when he heard her steps on the stone floor and waved her into the room.

"I expected more of you to come back," she bluntly. The eldest sister of Maglor's long-dead wife, Melloth was one of Fëanor's staunchest followers, and she had long ago earned the right to speak freely around his sons.

"So did I," Maedhros said heavily. "It was a complete disaster, Melloth. Elwing threw herself from a window into the sea with the Silmaril. I don't think she can possibly have survived the fall, but the jewel is lost, and Amras and Amrod are dead, and-- People _turned_ on us, Melloth. We had to fight against our own soldiers."

"And the children?"

"Elwing's sons," he said. "She left them behind."

"So you took them with you as ransom, in case the jewel is found?"

"Yes." There was no shame in his face, but Melloth hadn't expected any. She couldn't judge him; they had all left shame behind a long time ago.

"So what do we do now?" she asked.

"Now I check to make sure Maglor isn't trying to drown himself in the bath. After that? We wait. That's all we can do."

  


* * *

  


Maedhros found Maglor sitting naked on the edge of the tub in their shared bathroom, staring vacantly at the wall as water dripped from his hair and ran down his back. He didn't react when Maedhros said his name, so Maedhros repeated himself a little more loudly.

"Maglor."

Maglor blinked, seeming to come back to himself, and turned to face his brother. "Nelyo," he said. "Oh. You need to bathe." He stood, wrapping a towel around his waist, and said. "I'll help with your hair if you'd like."

"I'd appreciate that," Maedhros said after a moment. In the past he hadn't always accepted his brother's offers of assistance, but tonight he needed Maglor to be near, and his hair was as good an excuse as any.

While Maedhros stripped, Maglor filled the tub once more. The smell of sulfur soon permeated the air; the tap was attached to a clever system of pipes that Curufin had designed to carry water throughout the keep from the hot spring that passed beneath it.

Maedhros sank into the water with a sigh and a feeling of great relief; he hadn't realized until now how much he ached from their long flight from the Havens of Sirion. He scrubbed at the dirt and sweat caking his skin. Maglor was filling a small pail with more water. He poured it over his brother's head and began to work shampoo through his hair. Closing his eyes, Maedhros leaned back to let Maglor massage his scalp. For a long time, the gentle swish of the water in the tub was the only sound in the room.

Then Maglor spoke. "We didn't bury them," he said softly. "We were able to burn the others, at least, but we couldn't bury the twins. I don't know how I feel about that decision, Nelyo."

"They would have done the same, had it been you and I who were slain," Maedhros said quietly. "We cannot fulfill the Oath if we are dead or captured."

Maglor paused to fill the bucket once more and rinsed away the shampoo. "I just— I worry that Círdan and Gil-galad will leave our brothers to rot," he said, taking up a bone comb and working it carefully through the tangles in Maedhros' hair.

"I do not think they will, if only for Celebrimbor's sake. By all accounts he and Gil-galad are on good terms," Maedhros said.

Maglor's next stroke with the comb was harder than the others, and Maedhros let out a hiss as it snagged on a knot and pulled several hairs from his scalp. Maglor did not apologize. Instead he said angrily, "Do you feel nothing, Nelyo? Our brothers are _dead_."

"Don't," Maedhros said, pulling away and turning to face him. "I was naive at Doriath, I admit it. We all survived the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. I thought we would all survive then as well. I thought we would reclaim the Silmaril. But since then…" He trailed off, and his voice was very soft when he said, "I knew any of us might die this time. I knew we might fail. But that knowledge makes what happened no easier to bear. No, I do not feel _nothing_. But I cannot bring them back to life, nor can you."

Silently, Maglor placed a hand on Maedhros' scarred shoulder, turning him so that he could once more reach his hair. The next stroke of the comb was gentle. "I'm sorry," he said. "That wasn't fair. You loved them as much as I did."

"We have another set of twins to worry about now," Maedhros said. "Melloth is a healer, not a nanny. Someone else needs to care for Elwing's sons."

"I will," Maglor said, his voice quiet but firm. He had ceased combing and was now working his brother's hair into a loose braid. "I have thought long about this. We drove their mother to her death; we are responsible for their care. But you are our leader, and you have enough responsibilities. I will care for Elrond and Elros."

"So be it," Maedhros said. He waited for Maglor to finish and then stood, reaching for a towel of his own. "I will help you as much as I can, but you are now their primary caregiver." On impulse, he leaned over to press a kiss to the top of Maglor's head. "I know," he said, "that you'll do your best."

  


  



	3. Chapter 3

When Elros woke the next morning, he found himself alone in the unfamiliar bed he’d been tucked into the night before. Instantly he was engulfed by a wave of panic. Where was Elrond? Had Fëanor’s sons stolen him away and murdered him in the night? The men had said they wouldn’t harm Elros or his brother, but they were Kinslayers. Their words couldn’t be trusted.

Still dressed in the hand-me-down tunic he’d been given last night, Elros stumbled out into the hall. “Elrond?” he called. “Elrond?”

No one answered, so he gathered his strength and shoved at the door closest to him. It was heavy, and he was red-faced by the time it creaked open. It led to a short corridor which soon opened into a wide hall that held a fireplace and a long table with two benches. The hall was almost empty, save for two figures. The man called Doronel sat darning a sock by the light of the fire, and a woman stood with her back turned to Elros by the near end of the table.

After a moment’s hesitation, Elros chose to approach the woman. He immediately regretted it, for when she turned he saw that it was Galwen, the silent soldier who had thwarted his brother’s struggles with bruising pinches and tracked the two of them through the forest when they’d tried to flee. He nearly turned tail and ran, for he found her as imposing as Maedhros and Maglor themselves.

He swallowed nervously and then, in a wavering voice, said, “My brother is missing. Have you seen him?” 

She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t answer.

“She can’t speak aloud, lad,” Doronel said, glancing up from his work.

Galwen waved a hand at the ragged scars that covered her throat, the corners of her mouth tilting into a slightly mocking smile. _Is that not obvious?_ , her face seemed to say.

Elros took that as permission to stare openly. “What happened?” he asked, momentarily distracted from his fear.

She bared her teeth and bent the fingers of her right hand into claws.

“Orcs,” Doronel translated for the boy. Galwen gestured again and he said, “A long time ago.”

Elros shivered. He’d never seen an orc, but he’d heard his father’s soldiers tell of them, how wave upon wave of the wicked creatures had overwhelmed the hidden city of Gondolin, led by great monsters of fire who wielded burning whips.

Doronel noticed. “You don’t have to worry about orcs here,” he said. “We take great care to keep them away from Amon Ereb. You’re in no danger.”

 _No danger?_ Elros though disbelievingly. Of course he was in danger. He was in the hands of the Sons of Fëanor, and Elrond was _missing_ \--

Elros gathered up his nerve and demanded, “Where is Elrond?”

“Your brother woke earlier than you did,” Doronel said. “Melloth took him to see Lord Maglor. She’ll be back for you.” He paused, setting the sock down upon his knee, and said, “No one here will harm him, or you. My lords have sworn it, and they never go back on their word.” He beckoned Elros closer and said, “Come along. I’ll take you to kitchens while we wait for them. You could use a hot meal.”

Elros made his way hesitantly towards the man. What other choice did he have?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Galwen’s hands move through the air again. Doronel laughed, but he offered Elros no translation as he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and guided him through another door. Once they were away from Galwen he said, “You’ll pick her language up soon enough. But she has some bite behind her bark, that one. I’d advise you not to pester her overmuch.”

  


* * *

  


Maedhros was in his study again, bent over yet another map as he considered routes for this year’s winter patrols, when someone knocked softly on the door frame.

He looked up and saw that it was Galwen, and he beckoned her inside, wondering why she had come. He never turned any of his people away when they wished to speak to him, but Galwen had always been uncomfortable within stone walls, and she rarely ventured into the fortress proper.

She was one of the few followers of the Sons of Fëanor who had no Noldorin blood at all, instead being of mixed Avarin and Nandorin ancestry. While out hunting many yéni ago, she and her brothers had been set upon by a band of marauding orcs. Morgoth’s servants had killed her family before turning on her, shredding her throat with their teeth and claws.

But Amras and his men had been tracking those same orcs, and they arrived in time to slay the foul creatures before any could strike a killing blow. After the healers had tended to her, she had renamed herself Galwen, ‘fortunate woman’, and sworn loyalty to Amras in gratitude. She was fiercely devoted to him, for they were much alike in spirit, and she had fought beside him during the Dagor Bragollach and again in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. By the time the Sons of Fëanor had descended upon Doriath, she was Amras’ right hand.

With Amras dead, she no longer owed the Sons of Fëanor any loyalty, and Maedhros couldn’t help but wonder whether she had come to him now to ask to be released from their service.

She entered the room hesitantly, as though she were a bird in danger of being caged, and stood silently before him, her hands still.

“Speak, Galwen,” Maedhros urged.

 _My lord Amras is dead,_ she signed, tears welling up in her dark eyes. _Elwing’s men slew him, and I could not stop them. He saved my life, but when the time came, I could not save his._

Dropping her hands to her sides, she bowed her head and knelt down on one knee, remaining there in silence for a long moment. When she finally looked up to meet Maedhros’ gaze, her grief was still written plainly on her features, but it had been joined by determination.

 _I will follow you now, as I followed him,_ she said. _My loyalty is yours, Lord Maedhros. Whatever you ask of me, know that I will do it._

Maedhros bent down and took her by the arm, gently easing her upright. “I accept your service,” he said quietly, “if this is what you truly want. But my brother’s death is not on your hands, and I would bear you no ill will if you chose to return to your people.”

 _Any chance I had of rejoining my people died at Doriath,_ she signed. _They will never forgive me for what I did there, nor for what I have now done at the Havens of Sirion. Besides, my brothers are dead. There is nothing left for me among the Green-Elves. Doomed or not, your people are my family now._

“You honor us with your loyalty,” Maedhros said. Looking at her grieved face and the tension in her body, and remembering how Amras had always dealt with his own pain, he said, “I ask that you lead our next patrol of the southern woods.”

 _Yes, my lord,_ she signed, and Maedhros could see gratitude in her eyes. Having a task out in the forest would do more to ease her suffering than all the time in the world spent at rest.

  


* * *

  


Down in the kitchens, Doronel had returned to his darning, and a woman named Cúroneth had set a steaming bowl of porridge in front of Elros.

“So which twin are you?” she asked, pressing a spoon into his hand.

“Elros,” he said around a mouthful of porridge, forgetting his manners. The meal was bland, not accompanied by honey or milk the way it had been at home, but it was hot and he was _hungry_.

Whatever Cúroneth said in answer was lost in the gust of chill wind that howled into the kitchen as the outer door opened.

“Elros!”

At his brother’s voice, a wave of relief flooded through Elros, and he hurriedly turned away from his porridge. Elrond was fully dressed and wrapped in a cloak, and he scurried to Elros’ side as Maglor and Melloth walked through the door behind him.

“You’re awake,” Maglor said, sounding pleased. “Good. I’ve spoken to your brother; now I must speak to you.” Elrond’s face was turned away, visible only to Elros, and Elros didn’t miss the look of displeasure that crossed his brother’s features. He wondered why Maglor wanted to speak to them separately.

“Finish your porridge,” Maglor was saying, seemingly oblivious to Elrond’s feelings. “Then we’ll take you to get some proper clothes, and you and I will talk.”


	4. Chapter 4

Elros was soon dressed in clothes which, although clearly hand-me-downs, were clean, comfortable, and warm. Maglor had taken him by the hand and was leading him around the fortress, showing him the places he would need to be able to find.

"My youngest brothers were twins, you know," he said, his deep voice tinged with sadness. "If I needed to speak to them about something that had them upset and I tried to do it while they were together, neither of them would listen to a word I said. Maybe you and Elrond are not like that, but then, maybe you are. What I have to tell you now is important, and I don't want to risk either of you ignoring it."

He came to a halt under the eaves of the storehouse they were passing, putting himself and Elros out of the wind. "You are safe here," he said. "I don't expect you to believe me now, but I will say it as many times as you need to hear it. My brother and I and our people will not let any harm befall you."

Elros frowned, looking up, up, up at Maglor's bright eyes. "You say that, but when we tried to run away and Galwen caught us, she pinched Elrond so hard he still has bruises," he said. His voice was quiet and shaking, but he made himself keep speaking. "She hurt him because she was angry. And you killed Nana because she wouldn't give you what you wanted."

Maglor's face darkened, and Elros’ remaining determination was swept away by a wave of fear. He flinched, certain that he was about to be struck – or worse – but when Maglor spoke, he realized that Maglor's anger wasn't directed at him.

"Galwen won't do that again," Maglor said firmly. "I'll make sure of it. And you'll not see much of her in general. She spends more time on patrol than she does here at the fortress."

Slowly, the man knelt down, and Elros was finally able to meet his gaze without craning his neck.

"I'm going to take care of you and Elrond," Maglor said. "And I promise, you will not be harmed. You may bring anything that you need to me, and I will see to it. The only thing I ask is that you not trouble Maedhros – not because he would ever hurt you, but because he has many responsibilities and is very busy."

 _I don’t believe you_ , Elros wanted to say. But he had exhausted the last dregs of his courage and he was alone, unable to borrow strength from his brother. All he could do was nod and hope that that would be good enough.

When Maglor stood and took him by the hand once more, he followed his captor without protest.

  


* * *

  


Maglor declared that Elrond and Elros needed time to adjust before starting their schooling, so that afternoon they were turned over to yet another new face, an adolescent girl called Ólloth who sat spinning as she watched two young boys at play.

“Nelmir,” she said, once Maglor had left the room. “Arthoron.” The boys looked up from their painted blocks, and Ólloth gestured to Elrond and Elros. “Lord Maglor has brought you two new friends. This is Elrond and his brother Elros. They’ll be living here at Amon Ereb with us now.”

Her voice was calm and her expression placid; it was impossible for Elros to discern how much she knew about the circumstances of his and his brother’s arrival. Nelmir and Arthoron seemed to take her words at face value, and they both smiled shyly at the newcomers.

“Hi,” Arthoron said, pushing a few of the blocks towards Elrond in a silent invitation.

He was Taraharn’s grandson, Elros remembered, and part of him wanted to turn away, to shun the descendent of a Kinslayer. But Arthoron didn’t look any different from Elros’ friends back home, and his smile was genuine.

Elros exchanged a silent look with Elrond and saw his own feelings mirrored in his brother’s eyes. Slowly, together, they inched nearer to the boys and joined in their game. Neither spoke much, but Arthoron and Nelmir didn’t seem to mind; in fact, Nelmir talked enough for all four of them, chattering away about anything that crossed his mind. He seemed content with only the occasional nod or shrug from his new friends, and Elros couldn’t help being relieved. He didn’t want to answer any questions about why he was here. He didn’t want to _think_ about why he was here, not if he didn’t have to.

Eventually Ólloth brought her charges down to the hall for a supper of unfamiliar stew, made with a meat that Elros didn’t think he’d ever eaten before. It was warm and filling, but he found himself missing his mother’s fried sea trout with a pang.

Against his will, he started to cry.

Maglor set his own spoon down before pushing his chair back from the table and rising. “Bedtime, I think,” he said, gently scooping Elros up in his arms. Elros couldn’t find the energy to struggle, and he closed his wet eyes and rested his head on Maglor’s shoulder, allowing himself to pretend for a moment that it was his long-absent father who held him and not one of the men who had murdered his family.

Soon he and Elrond were tucked together into bed. Elros was still crying silently, and Elrond nestled closer to him and glared up at Maglor.

“Go away,” he demanded.

Maglor hesitated, but ultimately decided to comply, and Elros relaxed a little against his brother as they were left alone.

Slowly, both boys drifted off to sleep.

  


* * *

  


Maedhros couldn’t sleep.

That wasn’t unusual. In truth, he spent more nights awake than he did in slumber, for he was often plagued by bitter memories and harrowing dreams. The people of Amon Ereb were well accustomed to their lord pacing the darkened keep at night, his restlessness driving him from corridor to corridor on silent, unshod feet.

Tonight, his wandering took him past Elrond and Elros’ room. The door was ajar, spilling the dim light of a candle into the hall, and he paused to peek inside. The children were huddled together in their sleep, shivering beneath their woolen blanket, and it suddenly occurred to him that being part mortal likely made them more susceptible to the cold.

He couldn’t bring their mother back. He couldn’t undo what he and his people had done at the Havens of Sirion. He couldn’t restore his own brothers to life, nor could he fulfill his thrice-damned Oath. But the cold, at least, was something he could fix.

There were extra blankets stored in a cupboard near the kitchens, but they were plain things. Better to give the boys something with some color to it. Perhaps that would help them feel less like the prisoners that they truly were.

He returned to his rooms and knelt before the weathered cedar chest that stood at the end of his bed. Folded away at the bottom was a quilt, a many-textured whirlwind of reds, golds, and browns. Parmacundë had made it for Caranthir, her husband, when he had followed Fëanor to Formenos. It had been the only possession that Caranthir had spared room for when he had his people had fled from Thargelion during the Dagor Bragollach, for he had treasured it more than any gem – perhaps even more than the Silmarils themselves.

It did no one any good hidden away, and it was warm and beautiful. Maedhros gathered it up in his arms and walked down the hall to the twins’ bedroom.

Elrond stirred as Maedhros draped the quilt across him and Elros, his breath hitching and his grey eyes widening with fear when he saw Fëanor’s eldest son towering beside the bed.

“Go back to sleep,” Maedhros whispered, bending over to tuck the quilt under the end of the mattress. “It’s a long time till morning.”

He left the room without waiting to see if Elrond listened. Surely the boy would sleep more easily without one of his captors nearby.

  
  



End file.
